


Homecoming (or: My Boss Sent Me to Georgia, and All I Got Was This Gosh-Darned Hare)

by Apathy



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M, Pining, Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 23:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17693174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apathy/pseuds/Apathy
Summary: Clipper returns to the Homestead after a mission.





	Homecoming (or: My Boss Sent Me to Georgia, and All I Got Was This Gosh-Darned Hare)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greygerbil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/gifts).



> For greygerbil. I hope this helps to fill the Clipper-shaped hole in your life!
> 
> With many thanks to my beta.

There are only so many times, Clipper thinks, that a man can reasonably be expected to read the Declaration of Independence out loud. Especially in the same town. All those folks staring at him, elbowing each other in the ribs, whispering this and that to each other… it'd been downright embarrassing, if he's being honest with himself.

_There is no way that you can fail,_ Connor had said. _Simply go to the town square and read out the Declaration, and they will see the truth of your words._

It'd sounded easy enough. He knows how to read, after all, and Connor had been so certain of his success - one hundred per cent sure, he'd said! - that he'd gone into it completely unconcerned.

The good people of Georgia, on the other hand, had apparently had different ideas. Not that they'd run him out of town, or anything like that. But they hadn't been particularly moved by his words, and he'd arrived back at the Homestead weeks later, only to be sent right back to Georgia to give it another shot.

_You can't just stand there and read it at them, Clipper,_ Dobby had said to him - not unsympathetically - during his single night at the Homestead before heading back south. _Show them you mean it._

He'd spent the second trip down memorising the whole thing, so he could say it from heart and make eye contact with everyone in the crowd.

Standing there in front of all the same folks as the first time, reciting all the exact same words as before, he'd felt a right fool. Still, apparently it'd been enough - because somebody gave him a dead hare for his efforts, and now he's here, at the Homestead, and he hasn't been sent back out again. There's a piece of hay stuck down the back of his shirt that's scratching the heck out of his shoulder, and he's fixing for a good meal and an even better sleep, but he's home.

… It's strange, to think of the Homestead that way, but he guesses it's closer to home than anywhere else he's lived over the past few years. All the other Assassins drifting in and out, the bed that's always waiting for him, the townsfolk who always have a friendly word to share… what else is home, if not that?

In any case, it's a darn sight better than the other options. He'll certainly take it over camping out in Quebec with Stephane. Not that he has anything against him! It's just that well, diplomacy isn't the fella's strong suit, and the last time Connor attempted to send the two of them there, it took three goes before they accomplished anything. Not to mention that Stephane had then managed to get himself into a spot of bother in the local alehouse, and Clipper had been left to haul two loads of maple lumber - of all the things! - back to Connor by himself.

No, sir, he's happy here at the Homestead. There's a roof over his head, fine people to spend time with, and the bounty of nature all around.

There's also Connor. Connor, who takes in anyone who needs it, no matter their creed or colour. Connor, who's the finest shot he's ever encountered, taking down all manner of animals from a great distance with nothing more than a bow and arrow. Connor, who steals money and belongings from any person or chest he comes across, but somehow always manages to briefly convince Clipper of the righteousness of the act whenever he asks about it.

Connor, who is currently calling out to Clipper to come join him up the top of some enormous tree.

Clipper squints as he cranes his neck, peering up amongst the branches. The foliage is so dense that he can't make out a darn thing. Connor could be anywhere.

He can't say he's surprised. Connor has a habit of choosing the strangest places to spend his time; now that Clipper thinks about it, he's not sure when he last saw Connor just sitting in a chair like regular folks do. Heck, one time he watched Connor spend a good ten minutes alternately scaling the Homestead walls and swinging from the frame of the front door. The man has ants in his pants, and that's no lie. If there's something there for him to climb, he'll climb it.

But it's not just that he likes to go where he probably oughtn't; it's that sometimes he goes away where no one can find him at all. It's not strange for him to disappear outright for hours, days, or even weeks at a time, with no one knowing where he's gone or when he'll be back. The Homestead just keeps on keeping on, and everyone trusts that Connor will show up again eventually. It's just one of the many unspoken rules here that outsiders probably wouldn't understand.

Clipper rubs at his face in consternation, feeling the back of his neck heat up. Connor is some kind of great enigma, slipping in and out of their lives at will, commanding respect and obedience from all who meet him, even though he speaks so rarely… whereas Clipper, on the other hand, blurted out all his most embarrassing secrets within five minutes of meeting the man. There are still times when he's surprised that Connor even took him under his wing in the first place - after all, what good is an Assassin who can't keep his mouth shut? He thinks that Connor must see something greater in him, to have kept him around so long… or he'd like to think so, anyway.

Connor calls to him from somewhere up the tree again, and Clipper tries to hold back a sigh. He understands an Assassin's need to be able to climb trees, he truly does. And he's not half bad at it, if he does say so himself - marksmanship is his bread and butter, after all, and he's no good to Connor if he can't get himself into the best position for the job.

But surely this is going too far! This - this _monster_ of a tree is beyond anything that he'll ever need to climb. Heck, he's not even sure that they make trees this big elsewhere! One slip, and it'll be certain death.

Even as he pretends to debate the matter with himself, he knows what the outcome will be. It's Connor asking, after all. If Connor asked him to strip off all his clothes in the dead of winter, go naked into the woods, and bring him back some freshly harvested bear skins, Clipper would be asking _how many?_ before he'd even started unbuckling his belt.

He jumps up and grabs hold of the lowest branch with a sigh, fingers finding easy purchase amongst the rough bark, feet searching for a secure spot on the trunk. He's not like Connor - he can't just leap from bough to bough without a care for pesky things like gravity or balance or whether or not a branch will hold his weight, seemingly finding a perfect path to wherever it is he wants to go without even trying. No, he has to haul himself up like any other mere mortal, with all the grunting and sweating and slipping that entails.

Still, he's doing pretty well, all things considered, and it's only a few minutes before he can tell that he's nearing the top, the branches becoming more sparse, the late afternoon sunlight growing warm upon his back. The chant of _don't look down, don't look down, don't look down_ fills his head - maybe it escapes his lips, if he's being honest with himself - and he steadfastly does _not_ think about how he's going to make it back down to sweet Mother Earth again, lest he come to the conclusion that there is only one possible option, which would surely be both swift and painful.

He supposes that he could just stay in the tree forever, maybe hunt some birds, keep watch over the Homestead. He has his musket, after all, not to mention that dead hare. He could survive long enough for somebody to bring him a ladder, anyway.

… It's understandable that a man would get the jitters when up this high, isn't it? No one would hold it against him for breaking out into a bit of a nervous sweat. Sure makes it a bit hard to keep a good grip on the tree, though.

He wipes one palm against his pants, gripping onto the branch above him for dear life. So far, so good.

Now to dry off the other hand - and he makes the mistake of looking down as he does so. The tree spreads out dizzyingly beneath him, seemingly stretching on forever. Cruelly, it seems that any downwards path will either involve a direct plummet to the ground, or else hitting several large, sturdy, bone-breaking branches on the way. The direct option will probably kill him quicker, at least.

He stares downwards, trying to force himself to breathe. This isn't the homecoming he'd been planning on, that's for sure! If he somehow makes it out of here alive, he's going to have to have words with Connor. Strong words. He's going to tell Connor that he's happy to follow him to his death if need be, but also that he'd be right grateful if said death were actually in the service of the greater good. 

… He never did write a will, now that he thinks about it. Not a great idea, in his line of work. Not that he has much to leave to anyone.

_To my brothers: I leave you my musket. To Connor: I leave you this hare, which is actually yours, anyway, and also my thanks - it may be at least partially your fault that my life is ending so abruptly, but you gave it purpose -_

A strong grip closes around his arm, and all of a sudden his feet are no longer on the branch beneath him; but instead of falling to his assured death, he finds that he is instead being hauled to safety. He pulls his gaze upwards, and finds himself looking into Connor's eyes. The man looks amused - or, at least, as amused as he ever does, his eyes crinkling at the corners in the way that Clipper has come to recognise. 

'Come on,' he says, and Clipper tries to help out - tries to pull himself up, to hook his foot up over the branch - but, he has to admit, Connor is doing the lion's share of the work. He makes it look so easy, barely even straining as he single-handedly lifts Clipper up to the top of the tree.

Clipper clings to the branch for dear life as he gets his bearings back, silently thanking the good Lord for his timely rescue. His heart is hammering in his ears so loudly that it takes him far too long to realise that Connor is talking, and longer still before he can make out the words.

' - Sunset is especially remarkable from up here. Wouldn't you agree, Clipper?'

It's hard to say, given that Clipper currently has his face pressed down against the branch beneath him and his eyes squeezed tightly shut, but Connor sounds like he expects an answer. Besides, he's _pretty_ sure that Connor will catch him if he falls, and so he pushes himself up into a sitting position with arms that only shake slightly, back resting firmly against the trunk.

'Sure is,' he says. It's true - the sunset _is_ beautiful; he can even appreciate it, now that not every single thought in his mind is concerned with his own mortality. The Homestead and its surrounds are bathed in a deep gold colour, the light glimmering off the distant water. He feels like he could see forever from up here.

He turns his head towards Connor, who is propped up on the next branch in a way that doesn't seem overly safe, and takes in a quick, startled breath.

Connor looks more peaceful than Clipper has ever seen him, the usual tension gone from his body, his broad shoulders relaxed. Now, Clipper isn't one for big words and fanciful ideas, but he thinks that Connor looks downright serene there, the sunset catching his dark eyes like dancing flames. Sometimes he overhears the ladies around the Homestead whispering - or boldly stating - their thoughts about Connor… and, at moments like these, he has to admit that maybe they've got a point. There's no shame in admitting that Connor is a handsome fella - a person would have to be lacking eyes not to be able to see that. It'd been one of the first things he'd thought when he'd seen him in Boston that day - _Gosh, that's a handsome fella, and handy with it_ \- but it'd been a passing observation, nothing more.

He watches Connor watching the sunset for a good long while, although he doesn't realise that that's what he's doing until Connor turns to face him once more. He feels his face heating up, as if he's been caught out doing… what? He wasn't doing anything except looking at a friend and appreciating their good mood, and there's nothing wrong or strange about that.

… Is there?

Sure, he feels a little different than he normally would in this kind of situation - his heart is doing double duty, and his legs feel shakier than a newborn colt's - but that can be put down to his life having been put in peril. It's normal to be happy when your companions are happy. Right?

There is a part of him that feels like he's protesting too much, even though he hasn't said a word. There's another part of him that feels like a precarious treetop isn't the right kind of place for these sorts of thoughts. Yet another part of him is watching Connor as his face becomes concerned - no doubt because Clipper is staring like a fool - and then Connor is reaching for him, putting one large hand on Clipper's shoulder in what is probably supposed to be reassurance, but which instead only leaves Clipper feeling a bit dizzy, and -

Ah.

He is, perhaps, having certain realisations about things that he's been careful not to think too hard about in the past.

For instance, he recalls one particular time when he and Connor had gone hunting together. Connor had been expertly skinning a deer he'd killed, and Clipper had silently admired the skill with which he'd performed the action, the knife almost seeming to be an extension of his hand. Later, back at the Homestead, he'd mentioned Connor's expertise to Norris, and Norris had gone off on some long-winded ramble about Myriam's prowess with the knife, and her skill at pretty much anything she put her hand to, and her beauty, and her kindness, and Clipper had stopped listening too closely at this point. It had all seemed a bit much.

Now, he realises, that he could - he wouldn't, but he _could_ \- go on in much the same way about Connor. He probably wouldn't feel the need to describe in great detail how nice Connor looks in a wedding dress, but other than that… it's all starting to sound a little familiar.

_Ah, jeez._

It's one heck of a time to be coming to these conclusions, that's for sure. Better late than never, he supposes… but couldn't it at least have waited until he was back on solid ground?

Connor is still staring at him with worry in his eyes. He looks like he's about to ask Clipper what's wrong - which is a question that Clipper absolutely does _not_ want to have to answer - and so Clipper brandishes the only weapon that he has available to defend himself with.

'Here.' He pulls the hare meat off his belt and thrusts it towards Connor, suddenly extremely glad that the man who gave it to him had at least taken the time to have it salted first. He's not always so lucky. 'This is yours, courtesy of the good folks of Georgia.'

Connor takes the hare from him with a murmured thanks, his expression lightening a little. Clipper notices how close their hands come to brushing - he's given things to Connor a hundred times before without getting all odd about it, why is it making his heart beat faster _now?_ \- and pulls his arm back a little jerkily.

'You are a fine Assassin, Clipper,' Connor says. 'I knew that you would be able to get the job done.'

'Some Assassin,' he mutters, embarrassed despite himself. 'Couldn't even manage to read out the Declaration without needing a do-over.'

Whereas the things that Connor has done just beggar belief! Even though the man himself has remained tight-lipped about a lot of it, the stories about his exploits are told far and wide, and Clipper can well believe that most of them are true. The fact that Connor is even up this tree in the first place is a minor miracle, given the state he was in a few months ago. He just doesn't know when to quit.

Connor smiles at him. He feels like he's seen Connor smile more times in the past hour than in the past year. It would be strange, except that it's also really nice.

'Being an Assassin takes all kinds of skills. And it takes courage, to go back to somewhere you have failed, and try again.'

… Gosh darn it, it's all too much! He knows that Connor's a swell guy and all, but this is taking matters too far.

Connor's smile turns… _teasing_ , Clipper would say, if he didn't know better. 'Though I expect that there will not be too many more failures in the future, I hope?'

'No, sir,' Clipper says automatically. Perhaps it would have been better if he had fallen from the tree, after all. A quick death by impact would be preferable to a slow death by mortification. 

Maybe Connor senses that he's at his wits' end, because his face loses most of its playful quality. He reaches out a hand, and Clipper takes it, even as terror fills his soul.

'Do you trust me, Clipper?'

Of all the questions he has been asked today, this one is by far the easiest to answer. It requires no thought whatsoever.

'With my life.'

'I am glad to hear it.'

That smile again, and Clipper's heart soars -

No, wait, that's Clipper who's soaring. And by soaring, he means falling. Hurtling towards the earth at breakneck speed, in fact.

He doesn't have the time or breath to scream… but even if he did, he doesn't think he would do it, anyway. Because he had been telling the truth when he said that he trusted Connor with his life, and if he's certain of anything in life, it's that Connor wouldn't push him to his death right after congratulating him on a job well done. So he'll just have to trust that, somehow, he's not going to die when he hits the ground -

He does hit the ground, in fact - or, more accurately, something _on_ the ground. It's not soft, exactly, but it's enough to cushion the blow. Kind of scratchy.

Oh. A haystack.

He blinks. He's a bit winded, but otherwise okay.

He looks up, just in time to see a much more graceful figure falling towards the earth. Oh, right - he's seen Connor do this dozens of times. It'd always been impressive, but he hadn't thought that _he_ ever could - did _he_ just do that?

The thoughts only take a split second, but suddenly Connor is looming large right above him, plummeting towards the earth at a rate of knots. Clipper rolls to the side a little to get out the way, but he needn't have worried - Connor lands neatly on his back next to him, the hay rolling a little beneath him with the impact.

Connor turns his head to look at him.

'Leap of faith,' he says, as if that explains everything, and perhaps it does.

'Leap of pants-wetting terror,' Clipper replies, and Connor honest-to-God _laughs_ \- not loudly, but it's definitely a laugh. Clipper's stomach suddenly feels queasier than it did when he thought he was falling to his death, but in a strangely pleasant way, and he finds that he's laughing, too. He doesn't really understand it, but there's a lot he doesn't understand about life in general, and today in particular.

He notices that Connor has hay stuck in his hair. It's a bit odd - the guy has always seemed so untouchable as to be almost inhuman, to the point where it had honestly never even occurred to Clipper that he might get hay stuck in unfortunate places like any regular joe. But today has been a day of firsts, he supposes.

He realises that he's staring, just a little, and so he quickly turns his head to the side. The silence stretches out, starting to grow awkward where normally it would be comfortable, but he doesn't know how to break it.

The sky is growing darker as the sun starts to dip below the horizon. Night falls quick around here this time of year, and with it comes the cold; while tonight won't be cold enough to kill, it'll be uncomfortable, the kind of cold that can be better warded off by the presence of another warm body.

It's that thought that spurs him to action - he can't stay here any longer, else he'll make a fool of himself.

He turns his head back towards Connor, opening his mouth in readiness to tell him that he's going to go back inside… only to see that Connor is looking at _him_ , eyes dark and intent. His face is mighty close to Clipper's own, so close that it would be so easy to lean forward and -

Clipper does _not_ jerk back, but it's a close thing. Instead, he swallows hard, trying to ignore the fact that he can smell Connor from here. He smells like sweat, and dirt, and the outdoors. It's a good, honest smell, and it takes Clipper a moment to convince himself he shouldn't just close his eyes and breathe it in. 

'You did well today,' Connor says softly, and it's all Clipper can do to not twitch nervously in response to the praise. 'I knew you would.'

There's not much Clipper can say in response to that which won't be downright embarrassing; he discards the first three replies that come to mind, settling for a muttered, 'well, I have a good teacher'.

Connor smiles at that, small but sincere, and Clipper spends a long moment just staring into his eyes. Darn it, he needs to look away, but he _can't_.

Hoo boy.

Connor is the one to break the moment, but easily, naturally, sitting up and pulling his arms into a stretch that makes his shoulders crack. 'We should be getting back.'

'I guess so,' Clipper says, and he thinks he does a pretty good job of keeping the reluctance from his voice. It's disappointing, but also a relief - he's not sure how much more of this he can take before his heart beats clear out of his chest.

Connor moves to his feet in one fluid motion - Clipper knows no one else who can make getting out of a haystack look graceful - and offers Clipper his hand.

Clipper stares up at him. The last time Connor offered him his hand, he ended up throwing him out of a tree… but, well, that didn't end too badly, did it? Heck, if Clipper's being honest with himself, it was the best thing that's happened to him for a good long while.

He reaches up before he can second-guess himself, and takes Connor's hand. Clipper's not a small man by any means, but Connor pulls him to his feet before he even has a chance to think, his grip strong and sure.

It's probably his imagination that makes him think that Connor's hand lingers just a little longer than it needs to, that he doesn't let go at the first proper opportunity.

Probably.

He does let go after a moment, though, and Clipper does likewise, hoping that his reluctance isn't obvious.

Clipper watches as Connor turns and starts to make his way back towards the Homestead, his broad shoulders outlined against the fading light; after a moment, he follows.


End file.
